Twenty men of the platoon, Jed included, moved up the embankment to
the firing positions. Two hundred yards away the big targets were
lined up like billboards along the line of pits.
From the range control tower in the middle of the firing line, the
bullhorn speakers blared. "Familiarization fire. Prone position."
Twenty riflemen dropped to their knees and then forward onto their
bellies, their cheeks cuddling the stocks of the rifles.
"Twenty rounds. With ball ammunition, load and lock." Twenty bolts
snapped shut.
"Ready on the right? Ready on the left?"
The flank safety officer signaled. "Ready on the firing line," the
speakers blared. "Commence firing."
Jed squinted down the sights and carefully squeezed off a shot. A
ragged volley followed down the line. Jed was in position Number
Eighteen and down range, his target atop a large painted sign bearing
the same number, dropped. Jed rolled over and yelled at Corporal
Weisbaum. "Hey, corporal. I must have done shot 'n broke that there
target. It just fell down."
Weisbaum grinned. "You didn't break nothing, hillbilly. You just got
lucky and hit somewhere on the target. Every time you hit it, they
pull it down and mark where your shot hit so you can correct your
sights. See, here it comes back up again."
Target Number Eighteen rose above the pits. In the dead center of the
small black bull's-eye was a small white dot. Weisbaum stared at the
target, then swung a pair of binoculars to his eyes. "Man, talk about
luck. You hit it smack in the center of the black."
The target dropped again for a pasted patch over the hole. Then it
came up.
Jed grinned happily and rolled back to the prone position, looked
briefly down the sight and squeezed off another round. The target
dropped again. In a moment it was back up, the same white marker disk
showing in the black. Weisbaum put the glasses to his eyes again. "I
knew it was luck. You musta missed it, hillbilly, cause that's the
same mark you had last shot."
Jed frowned and waited for the target to be pulled and pasted, then
fired again. Once more it came up with the identical white marker in
the center. It was Weisbaum's turn to frown. "Better check that sight,
Cromwell. You can't shoot on luck forever. Them last two rounds never
touched the target."
The range radio safety operator came up to the corporal and handed him
the walkie talkie. "Pit wants to talk to you, corporal."
Weisbaum took the handset and held it to his ear. "This is Corporal
Weisbaum. Yeah. He WHAT! You sure? Yeah, pull it and paste it. This I
want to see."
He handed the handset to the radioman and glared at Jed. "So now
you're some kinda wise guy, huh, hillbilly? You think you can keep
shootin' on luck? The pits say you been hitting the same spot every
time. Nobody can do that. Now, go ahead, hillbilly. I want to see you
do it again."
Jed rolled over on his belly, looked and fired. Down went the target
to come up again with another dead-center marker.
"He did it again," the radioman declared to the corporal.
Weisbaum was beginning to get an awed look on his face. "Go on,
hillbilly, keep firing."
Behind the corporal and the recruit, the radioman was talking softly
to the pits. "He's in position ... he's aiming ... he's holdin--" The
operator stopped talking and shook his handset and held it again to
his ear. Jed fired. A split second later the radio burst into voice.
"... Did it again," the pit operator yelled excitedly.
Jed fired all twenty rounds into the exact same hole and the range
firing came to a screeching halt. By the time he was on the final
round, all other firing had stopped and range officers and safety
NCO's were gathered in a semicircle around the prone mountain boy.
Weisbaum pounded Jed on the back as the young recruit scrambled to his
feet and dusted his fatigues. "Man, what an eye. Wait 'til the old man
sees this. Look," he took Jed by the arm, "you shoot like this all the
time back in them hills you come from?" Jed nodded. "I thought so,"
Weisbaum cried happily. "Go sit down and take it easy. I want the old
man to come out and see this."
* * * * *
Jed smiled happily and walked off the firing line amidst the admiring
stares of his fellow recruits. He flung himself on the ground in the
shade of a stack of ammunition boxes and grinned to himself. Shucks,
all that excitement over a little shooting. Back home he did it all
the time. But it'd make Ma proud to know he could do something real
good. He let his mind travel for the first time in weeks.
On the range road a few feet away, a convoy of trucks carrying another
recruit company to the ranges farther down the line, suddenly
spluttered and came to a stop as their engines died.
"Ma," Jed thought, "you busy?"
Behind the cabin in Bluebird Gulch, Ma Cromwell laid down the axe she
had been splitting firewood with and closed her eyes. "'Bout time you
remembered your maw," she replied. "You all right, Sonny?"
"I'm jest fine, Ma. An' I did somethin' good, too, Ma. I just showed
these Army fellers what us Cromwells kin do with a rifle gun."
Jed lay in the warm sun and let the light filter through his closed
eyelids. He paid no attention to the clanging of truck hoods and the
muttered curses of a half dozen truck driver as they clambered over
the front of their vehicles trying to figure out what was causing them
to have engine trouble.
"What did you do, Sonny?" Ma asked.
"Tweren't really nothing, Ma," Jed replied. "I shot this here
newfangled gun they gave me at a big ol' target 'n hit it, Ma. Honest,
Ma, that black circle they got in that thing is jest 'bout as big as
the hind end of a black bear and it ain't no further away than the
bottom of the cornfield from the cabin door."
In the range control tower, Corporal Weisbaum was getting madder every
second.
"What's the matter with that switchboard operator," he screamed.
"Don't he hear the buzzer?" He shook the phone and roared again.
Finally, he slapped it down on the hook. "Gimme that radio," he said,
reaching for the handset. The operator shook his head sadly. "No use,
corp. It's deader'n doornail. Don't know what's the matter. It just
quit."
Weisbaum looked around and spotted one of the regular jeep drivers
standing at the foot of the tower. "Mahoney," he yelled. "Get in your
jeep and go back and get the old man. Tell him he's gotta see Cromwell
shoot. You can tell him what happened."
The jeep driver started towards his vehicle. "And Mahoney," Weisbaum
yelled after him, "while you're there, bring back another radio and
tell that idiot on the switchboard we got wire trouble." Mahoney
nodded and went to his jeep.
Back at the cabin, Ma Cromwell wiped her face with her apron skirt.
"Shore hot today," she thought. "You hot there, too, Sonny?"
"Kinda hot, Ma," Jed thought back. "Shore ain't like home. Not bad
though."
"You gettin' enough to eat, child?" Ma asked.
Jed frowned slightly and stepped up his mental output. A half mile
down range and a thousand feet up, an Army helicopter heading for a
maneuver area, coughed and quit. The blades went into autogyro as it
sank quickly to earth.
Vehicles all over the post came to a spluttering stop and office
lights and refrigerators went off.
"What did you say, Ma?" Jed asked. "Seemed like you got sorta weak."
"'Tain't me." Ma snorted. "Jest that nosy Miz Hawkins. She's gotta
listen in on everybody's private talk up in these hills, seems like."
There was the feeling of an indignant gasp and then Ma's thoughts came
booming through. Jed relaxed and grinned. The chopper was almost on
the ground when its engine caught fire once again and went surging up
and forward. The surprised pilot fought to get control before he
slammed into a low hill. Lights came back on and electrical equipment
began running other than close to the range.
"Shouldn't ought to talk like that, Ma," Jed grinned. "She's jest
bein' friendly like."
"Hm-m-m," Ma sniffed, "gettin' so's a body cain't even talk with her
own kinfolk without everybody in these parts listenin' in."
Mahoney got out of his jeep and walked back to the tower. "Jeep won't
start," he called up to Weisbaum.
The corporal turned purple and leaned over the edge of the tower. "Ta
hell with it then," he roared. "Now get those bums back on the line.
We got a whole platoon to shoot out and I want to see that hillbilly
do the same thing in the standing position.
"Cromwell," he bellowed, "get up on that line."
Jed opened his eyes quickly and then shut them for another moment.
"Got to go, Ma," he thought quickly, "that corporal feller's yellin'
again. You take care, Ma."
"I will, Sonny," Ma thought back. "Mind your manners."
Jed got up and hurried to the firing line. In the tower, the phone
began ringing and the radio and telephone operators began reporting
the equipment trouble they'd been having. On the road, one of the
truck drivers half-heartedly stepped on the starter for the tenth
time. The engine roared to life. The other drivers stopped and stared,
then climbed down from fenders and front bumpers and tried their own
starters. The trucks and their puzzled drivers left. Firing resumed.
That evening in the barracks, Harry Fisher complimented the mountain
boy. "Nice shooting today, Jed," he said, "I was on the radio in the
pits while you were shooting. I don't think anyone ever saw anything
like that before."
Jed smiled at his friend and bunkmate. "It's easy to do, real easy
Harry," he said. "I reckon everyone could do it once they get the hang
of it."
Fisher smiled ruefully. "You're looking at one guy who'll never get
the hang of it," he said, "whatever the 'hang of it' might be."
"Honest, Harry," Jed said earnestly, "all you gotta do is jest think
them bullets into that big black spot."
Fisher laughed. "I could think like Socrates and never come close
to...." He stopped and stared at Jed with a half-smile. "You know,
Jed, you're kind of weird sometimes. 'Think the bullets.' Come to
think of it, though, that's not the only weird thing. Did you know
that everytime you were getting ready to shoot our radios went dead
today?"
Jed frowned thoughtfully. "That's funny. I ain't never heard of that
happenin' afore. O' course, we never had radios in Bluebird Gulch.
Only thing we ever had trouble with wuz the 'lectric light bulbs in
Paulsburg the one-two times our folks went down there. Seems like them
lights wuz goin' out everytime one of us wuz mind-talkin' with some
homefolks."
Harry stared puzzledly at the mountain boy.
"You know," Jed tried to explain, "like when you might of fergot
somethin' someone wanted real bad from the store. Or mebbe like one
time when Ma'n me wuz in the big store in Paulsburg and she wuz
gettin' some fancy cloth fer Miz Culpepper. Store didn't have no fancy
cloth like Miz Culpepper wanted, with big red flowers. Only had blue
flowers. So Ma, she mind-asked Miz Culpepper if the blue ones would be
all right. Every durned 'lectric light bulb in that store went out."
Fisher was beginning to get a dazed look on his face. "'Mind-asked.'
'Mind-talk.' You mean what I think you mean, Jediah?" he asked.
"Reckon I do," Jed said emphatically. "Just like I mind-talked with Ma
this afternoon an' tole her what all the hurrah was about jest 'cause
I flung them bullets through that big ol' black spot."
"You talked with your mother back in West Virginia this afternoon?"
Harry pressed. "From the rifle range?"
"Shore did," Jed said happily. "Most plumb forgot fer a couple o'
weeks now, what with us bein' so consarned busy. It wuz purely fine to
talk with Ma."
Fisher's brain was spinning. "Can you contact her anytime you want
to?"
"Shore kin," Jed said proudly. "It takes a mite more power though, the
furthern I git from home. Or if Miz Hawkins is listenin' in."
"Let's see you do it now," Fisher demanded.